


Nights Were Mainly Made (For Saying Things Like These)

by OldEmeraldEye



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anya is not here for all these displays of affection, Courting Rituals, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, Festivals, Grounder Culture, Marriage Proposal, Worldbuilding, marriage by food, monty's moonshine, or Grounder equivilant, she has a reputation to maintain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:39:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldEmeraldEye/pseuds/OldEmeraldEye
Summary: This is a night unlike other nights, where conflicts cease and drinks are shared. A sacred space, sanctified by life's joys.





	Nights Were Mainly Made (For Saying Things Like These)

Clarke lets out a sigh as she settles back against the log, warmed by the fire and the weight of Lexa’s coat draped across her shoulders and the utter absence of anything, human or otherwise, trying to kill anyone she cares about.

The Hundred are gathered around the drink station Monty’s set up, playing some sort of drinking game that involves a lot of coughing and spluttering by all involved. If she wasn’t so thoroughly relaxing, she might join them. Across the fire from them, a group of grounders are dancing with swords, like some sort of weaponized game of limbo. Every so often a cheer goes up and they shift around in concert, their boots pounding the earth flat and their blades making the air sing.

Lexa returns to her side with a platter piled high with food. She shares the finest cuts with Clarke, giving her the first taste of each dish and continuing to fill her platter until Clarke resorts to kissing her as a distraction.

Anya, passing by with two drinks, gives one of her non-smirks at the wonder of it, her sekon acting like a love struck goafa. Her face seems almost young without its paint, still that flicker of danger in the firelight. No one wears paint tonight; the spirits that they call on are not those of war, nor strife, nor death. Tonight, Wanheda does not exist. Even Lexa is just Lexa, not Heda kom Jus. For tonight, she is a girl, not a leader though the action she is preparing for is every bit as, if not more important than her regular duties.

She tears the bread and feeds it to her hodness by hand, interspersed with the kisses that Clarke’s given up pretending are about anything but kissing.

 _“Ai ron yu ai fragon, fos dina kom_ _sprintam.”_ My kills are your food, the first fruits of the season.

Abby watches with a puzzled frown from beside the spit. Whispers are spreading, even some Skaikru are beginning to pay attention to the scene. Anya appropriates a skinfull of Azgada witfaya from the hands of one of her warriors and pushes it into her hands. Snatches it back when she sees Clarke is now sucking her fingers clean. Lexa is not objecting – she seems rather eager to replace her fingers with her face, in fact - but Anya’s brain is telling her she is far from unflappable warrior that she thought she was, and there are some things she does _not_ need to see.


End file.
